


5 People Who Taught Cristiano Ronaldo About Sex

by luxover



Category: Football RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 People Who Taught Cristiano Ronaldo About Sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 People Who Taught Cristiano Ronaldo About Sex

**Ricardo Quaresma**

Cristiano gets to Sporting, takes one look at Quaresma, and just knows. He knows that Quaresma is good, knows that even though everyone’s talking about Cristiano, Quaresma’s still top dog, and he is determined to change that.

Cristiano’s never worked so hard in his life. He’s never worked so hard, drilled so much, ran so fast in his life, and if he thought he was giving it his all before, he was wrong. He’s giving it now, though, and it shows. As far as pecking order goes at Sporting, he’s sitting pretty at number two, their go-to guy right behind Quaresma, and of course it’s Quaresma. It’s always fucking Quaresma who leads, who scores, who wins. It doesn’t matter that they play for the same team; Cristiano always loses.

He stays late one day, practicing his footwork and messing around with some fancy moves that could be really cool if he ever actually had the opportunity to use one in a match. The showers are empty when he gets back to the locker room and he takes his time, making sure to stretch well and get all the sweat off his body before he heads out.

Quaresma’s waiting outside—for what, Cristiano doesn’t know, but Quaresma scares the shit out of him when he says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Cristiano says back, and that’s that.

They walk together to Cristiano’s car. They don’t say anything until—

“Do you need a ride or something?” Cristiano asks.

“Sure,” Quaresma shrugs, and Cristiano has no clue what Quaresma was going to do if he didn’t stay behind for extra practice.

“I watch you,” Quaresma says. “At practice, sometimes. You’re good.”

“Not as good as you,” Cristiano says, and Quaresma smiles.

“Ah. I get it now,” he says. And Cristiano wants to say back,  _No, you don’t, because I don’t even get it_ , but then Quaresma’s pushing him back against his car, his hands in Cristiano’s hair and his mouth on Cristiano’s neck, and Cristiano doesn’t know what the hell is going on, because they’re not friends, and they’re barely even acquaintances off the pitch, so they’re definitely not—definitely not this.

And then Quaresma drops to his knees right there in the parking lot and undoes Cristiano’s belt. He looks up for a second and waits, like Cristiano would say no or ask him to stop. So Quaresma blows him, eyes looking up the entire time, and when he pulls off, Cristiano notices a trail of spit and come leading from the tip of Cristiano’s cock to Quaresma’s lips.

And Cristiano—Cristiano’s never been one to be outdone, so the second he gets his head back on straight, he’s yanking his pants up, grabbing Quaresma by the shoulders and forcing him to stand, his back to the car. And as his knees hit the pavement and his fingers fumble with Quaresma’s belt buckle, Cristiano thinks: he probably didn’t last any longer than ten minutes; he’ll make Quaresma come in nine.

But then Quaresma’s tugging at his hair and saying, “Hey, hey, whoa, slow down.” He reaches a hand down to cup Christiano’s jaw and says, “Not so fast, it’s not only about the end goal.” His hips are stuttering, but he brushes back the hair that’s stuck itself to Cristiano’s forehead and says, “Don’t think like a striker. It’s like—it’s like midfield. Not just about scoring, but also about defense and tackling and long passes and—and—”

And Cristiano doesn’t ever find out what else it’s like, because then Quaresma’s coming and Cristiano’s wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and looking at his watch and saying, “I win.”

Quaresma laughs, and so does Cristiano.

“Come on, Ricardo, I’ll take you home,” Cristiano says, and the entire drive home he’s thinking about sex and the midfield.

Two months later, he’s signed by Manchester United and Quaresma’s left behind, big fish in a small pond, and Cristiano’s moved on.

 

 **Ruud van Nistelrooy**

They meet at United.

They get drunk and have sex and it was good, or at least Cristiano thought so, but then at practice everything just exploded. Ruud started screaming all this stuff about Cristiano and how he never passes and how he’s a glory hunter. Cristiano’s not proud of it, but he threw the first punch and loved how it sounded, Ruud’s nose crunching under his fist after he had insulted Cristiano’s father. And he’s not proud of how he felt afterwards, of how glad he was that Ruud was pulled from the squad the next game and of how he was traded two months later.

Cristiano’s not proud of any of it. Sex, he had learned, just complicates things. He doesn’t like to talk about it.

 

  **Kaká**

Cristiano thinks Kaká’s the most perfect human being he’s ever seen. He’s got that big smile and those bright eyes and he plays such beautiful, beautiful football that Cristiano thinks,  _This is it_. Only it’s not because somebody got there first; her name is Caroline and she’s beautiful, just like Kaká.

Later, years after the first time Cristiano had ever even heard of him, he and Kaká play on the same team. And Cristiano’s jealous at first, so jealous, but then Kaká says things to him like, “You were good today,” and “Can you show me that footwork you just did, only slower?” and “I can’t believe I actually get to play with you, you’re that good,” and Cristiano forgets.

And it’s not only that he’s being complimented, it’s that Kaká’s the one doing it, and that makes all the difference. Cristiano wants to say, “See how brilliant we are on the pitch? We could be like that off it, too,” but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Alright, left foot, watch closely,” and Kaká does.

Things change when Kaká gets hurt. The pitch gets empty and he begins to miss the weight of Kaká’s stare, the feel of wind against his back as Kaká crosses behind him. It’s different; it’s change that he doesn’t like. He grew up and went off to play football all by himself and he missed his family, sure, but he never missed them the way he misses Kaká and that scares him, worries him.

Kaká says the same things, too, only it makes more sense when he does. He says, “I’m glad you can still score without me, but I’d rather you didn’t have to,” and “Only a few more months, the doctor says. I can’t wait to be back with you,” and, simply put, “I miss you.”

Cristiano tries, but never can quite say it back.

And then one night—one night after whatever latest tabloid scandal Cristiano is involved in hits the stands, Kaká invites him over for dinner. Instead of wine, Cristiano brings Luca a Real Madrid kit, number seven with  _Ronaldo_ on the back. Caroline looks beautiful, effortlessly so, and Cristiano tells her as much; he tells Kaká that his outfit would look better with a snakeskin belt, and Kaká laughs.

After dinner, Caroline goes to put Luca to bed and Kaká leads Cristiano out on to the back deck. They sit outside and drink iced tea and it’s still warm out, the sun low on the horizon.

Kaká says, “You know, Cristiano, I pray for you every day.”

“Thank you,” Cristiano says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He thinks Kaká looks beautiful in the dim light, his hair in his eyes and his smile, right there, just so.

“You’re welcome,” Kaká tells him. They sit in silence for a minute and then, “Can I—I mean, may I say something that you might not want to hear, especially from me?”

Cristiano shrugs, “Okay.”

“I can’t help but notice,” Kaká starts, and he’s doing these big hand gestures, ones that tell Cristiano that Kaká is nervous about this, that he’s overcompensating with his hands for what he feels like he lacks in words. “I can’t help but notice all the tabloids, and I know I shouldn’t mention it and that it’s none of my business, but I just feel like someone should tell you that you’ll find love, that you don’t need—don’t need to go around having sex just to find it. You’re a wonderful person, Cristiano, and when God feels you are ready, love will come to you.”

“I, uh, wow,” Cristiano says. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” Kaká tells him, and Cristiano thinks that’s probably for the best because how could he tell Kaká that he already found someone, only that someone had already found someone else? He couldn’t possibly, and so he doesn’t.

When he leaves, he hugs Kaká at the door and Kaká seems surprised.

“Thanks for tonight,” Cristiano says.

“Anytime,” Kaká tells him, and Cristiano believes that Kaká genuinely means it.

He makes it down the steps and halfway to his car when he turns around, and sure enough, Kaká is standing there, seeing him off.

“It’s not the same without you on the pitch,” Cristiano says with a shrug. “That new kid di Maria’s good, but it’s not the same.”

“I know,” Kaká says, and Cristiano breathes easy.

 

 **Cristiano Ronaldo, Jr.**

Cristiano looks at his son and he just—he can’t believe it. He has a  _son_.

Little Cris smells like soap and baby powder and has this tuft of dark hair that’s exactly like his and that Cristiano styles sometimes, only ever with water when Cris is in the bath. He can’t even walk yet, but he’s got all sorts of football gear and Kaká even came round with a number eight kit, saying, “Fair’s fair.” Cristiano doesn’t care, not at all, because  _he has a son._

He thinks back on everything—the mother of his child and how he only slept with her because he was lonely; Kaká praying for him when he shouldn’t, wouldn’t, not if he knew what Cristiano really wanted; being poor and being lonely and street football and club football and his dad and just everything—and it almost overwhelms him.

But then he looks back at Cris and all of a sudden, none of that matters because he has a son, a son that needs him and that loves him unconditionally and it’s things like that that matter, and all of a sudden, everything he’s ever done—all the football he’s played and all the money he’s spent and especially all the sex he’s had—all boils down to this:

He has a son.

 

 **Irina Shayk**

Cristiano hasn’t introduced Irina to his son, not yet, and Kaká seems to think that’s a good idea.

“You should know that it’s, you know, serious first,” Kaká says, and he flashes Cristiano as smile. “But just so you know, I like her. I think she’s good for you.”

And Cristiano doesn’t know, isn’t so sure about that, but Kaká seems to be pretty confident about it and that’s good enough for Cristiano.

So Cristiano takes her out to dinner, some place real fancy that he dresses up for and that she dresses up for, all legs, legs for miles and miles, and a big, beautiful smile that’s second only to Kaká’s.

“I want to make this work,” Cristiano says. “I want to be serious about this.”

Irina smiles, says, “Me too,” and when he drops her home, she invites him inside.

They kiss on the couch and at some point, when they move to the bedroom, Cristiano slides the straps of her dress off her shoulders and brackets his hand around her ribcage. She’s smaller than he always seems to remember, but that doesn’t really matter and she pushes him back until he’s seated on the bed. She unbuttons his shirt while standing in between his knees and kisses her way across the smooth expanse of his chest.

“Let me take care of you,” she whispers. “Just for tonight.”

Cristiano nods and she removes his shirt, takes her time kissing his shoulder blades and his collarbones. She removes his pants and shimmies the rest of her dress down her hips, and when it’s just the two of them pressed hip to hip, chest to chest, skin to skin, she kisses him again, slowly, and runs her hands up and down his sides.

She takes her time making him feel good— _midfield_ , Cristiano thinks,  _like beautiful football, like the midfield_ —and he realizes that it’s not just about what she’s doing; it’s about what she’s saying, with her body, with his. It’s the way they come apart and fit together.

Cristiano thinks he gets it, all of a sudden, at last.


End file.
